The Final Sunset

Trigger warning: This story deals with suicide, but in a positive way that might surprise you.

~

The coals burned low as the sun sank to the edges of the mountain range. Rocky crags became nearly featureless silhouettes, only their outline remaining against the backdrop of the fiery sky. Silas McClintock lay beside the fire, letting it burn down as he enjoyed what would be one of the last sunsets he’d see. That night would be more cool than cold, and the wool blanket would be sufficient to keep him warm. He’d grown to appreciate a bit of chill in the morning; the discomfort it drove in his aging bones reminded him that he was still alive.

A knot popped among the embers, sending a brief shower of sparks skyward. Cactus, the buckskin gelding that stood hobbled nearby, whinnied briefly. He’d earned his name a decade prior due to his prickly demeanor. At the age of 12, he was no less grumpy than he’d been as a colt, but Silas didn’t keep him for his friendliness. The horse stayed in his life because the cowboy understood him.

The man had a few defining traits. His needs were simple, his desires uncomplicated, his lifestyle not always agreed with, but easily comprehended by any who bothered to look. He was, in a word, elemental: unchanging, immovable on his principles, and unafraid to own them when the time to act came. He’d had few friends in his lifetime but held the respect of many. Thirty years prior, a foreman on the cattle ranch he’d worked for a few seasons summarized him in a single sentence: “That man lives life on his own terms.”

McClintock had never married, sired children, or even owned a house. He had no desire to settle down in his sunset years, nor did he have a place to go if that had been his preference. His life had been lived under the stars, out on the range, his choices reflecting the traits of men from a soon-to-be-bygone era. Civilization had come to the West; ranches had turned to farms, vast expanses of wilderness had been measured and marked, and roads were becoming more common. Those transitive jobs many cowhands had held were becoming more permanent, and long cattle drives had all but ceased to exist.

The last rays of the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, and the sky began to darken quickly. Silas rose to his feet, feeling the stiffness that possessed his joints now, and walked a few feet away from his camp to take a piss. A wolf howled in the distance, and a few moments later, the soft hoot of an owl could be heard much closer to camp. The chirping of Mormon crickets provided a steady background ambiance to the occasional calls of larger animals. The sounds comforted the man, indicating another typical night was beginning. With rare exception, stillness was far more of a warning, nature’s indicator that something was amiss and danger close.

The opposite was generally true with people, and McClintock reflected on this as he settled into his bedroll for the night. It seemed that the trust one could place in a man was inversely proportional to the number of words he spoke. Talkative men never lasted; they simply didn’t have enough sand. They were always the first to whine when things got tough instead of sucking it up and forging ahead, the first to make trouble when they got a bit of whiskey in them, and the last to face any form of danger.

Silence wasn’t always advantageous. The man shifted his position repeatedly, trying to get comfortable. The hardness of the earth wasn’t the problem; he’d spent most nights over the past forty years on the ground, and he was more comfortable here than he was on the few feather beds he’d experienced in his life. The problem was something no one knew about, save the doctor who had provided the terminal diagnosis six months back. The pain had grown steadily in the time since, and extended periods in the saddle had grown all but unbearable. Reclining wasn’t as agonizing, but it had been a while since he’d truly felt comfortable.

The sun had set around eight, but rest didn’t come until the North Star and two pointer stars of the Big Dipper indicated it was 11 pm. The aged cowboy slept fitfully, unconsciously tossing and turning as the pain built with lying in a single position for too long. Cactus watched him, far more attuned to his owner’s body language than to the words of admittance that would never make it out of his throat. Both man and horse knew he was dying, but neither of them could tell a soul.

A month earlier, Silas began setting his affairs in order. He let the foreman know he’d be moving on to “a more permanent location further west,” but didn’t offer any more detail, and the head man knew better than to ask. He knew that if McClintock thought it was his business, he’d tell him, and the man hadn’t said a word. The foreman told him he was good to go, then watched Silas saddle Cactus and ride out to mend fences along the ranch’s northeastern border. What was that lesson he’d learned about in the one-room grade school he’d attended as a boy? The foreman wracked his brain, trying to remember the word that best described the cowboy who was slowly fading into the distance. “Stoic. That’s it.” The ranch boss snapped his fingers with the discovery, then watched the old cowboy until he disappeared on the horizon.

In the days that followed, McClintock said goodbyes in his own way. Cookie, the closest thing the ranch had to a chef, was the same age, and the two had shared night skies on innumerable cattle drives over the years. Both drifted from job to job but had repeatedly encountered the other over the years. The night after he’d spoken with the foreman, Silas had knocked on the cookshack’s door. Cookie opened it, and the cowboy held up a fifth of whiskey and two glasses. His friend smiled, nodded, and stepped back, motioning his compadre in.

The cookshack doubled as an apartment but was sparsely furnished. A single bed occupied the corner of the room alongside a small nightstand with an oil lamp. Across the room was a large wood cookstove, which sat adjacent to a fully stocked pantry. The only other piece of furniture was a large prep area that doubled as a dining room table, with two chairs neatly tucked in on opposite sides. This is where the men sat, each rolling a smoke and sipping the amber liquor while they reminisced about the times when they were young. Each story was punctuated with chuckles and typically followed by long bouts of silence. The quiet was anything but awkward; the two old men in a young man’s world simply rested in the bond they shared, not having to say a word.

Hours later, the bottle drained, Silas stood and nodded at the cook. A moment of understanding passed between them, and in that second, Cookie knew everything he needed to. He rose and extended his hand. The cowboy grasped it firmly, and in that simple, intimate gesture, the two said their goodbyes.

Cactus softly whinnied at his partner who lay on the ground, awake but unmoving. The soft rays of dawn had begun to creep across the plain, creating a visual effect on the western mountain range as the sunset had the evening before. Their overall outlines muted, the eastern-facing slopes were filled with detail. McClintock lay on his side, facing them across the dead embers of his small campfire. He took in the snow-covered peaks and the evergreens that stood in thick groves, signaling life regardless of the season. Stands of birch were interspersed among them, meeting the sun’s rays with a fiery yellow intensity of their own. There was always a sense of rebirth as one looked east, and a feeling of melancholic farewell toward the west. The cowboy rose, packed camp, saddled the ornery horse, and headed toward the mountains.

A half-dozen younger men worked on the ranch full-time, the oldest half of Silas’s age. They’d grown to respect this fellow who never offered an excuse and could still outwork most of them, despite his years. Although he mostly kept to himself, he was always there when one of them needed to ask advice in virtually any area.

Each day for a week, he’d summoned one of the ranch hands and told him that they’d ride together for the day. As they completed mundane chores and rote tasks, the old cowboy provided finishing touches to the mentorship he’d provided them. To one, he spent half the day explaining some of the finer points of horse behavior, showing him how to quickly assess the character of an animal beyond examining just its physical qualities. Another, he set to work on chopping down a stand of young pine, working alongside him and matching each swing of the ax. Every time the more youthful man paused, Silas would look at him, shake his head, and then continue the steady pace. The twenty-year-old received the cue and worked slowly and relentlessly until the area had been cleared.

So it went, McClintock selecting work assignments that would allow him to adjust a boy’s tendencies, teaching him to adopt a behavior or learn a lesson that would shape his development as a man. It took a full week, but eventually, each of the younger cowpokes had been given his finishing touches.

The day’s ride was slow and ambling, with several stops so the cowboy could dismount and walk around until the pain lessened. It was growing daily; he’d already surpassed the estimated timeline the doc had given him by a few days and was unsurprised that his body was reacting this way. An hour before the sun set, the two companions made camp. McClintock pulled together a simple meal of fried bacon, coffee, and hardtack that he soaked in water and leftover bacon grease to make more palatable (as well as edible). He pulled a measure of oats from one of his saddlebags and gave it to the horse, Cactus snorting in a rare display of gratitude.

This night, the man’s sleep was disrupted by memories as well as physical discomfort. Thoughts of the last days on the ranch filled his mind. The hardest farewell Silas faced had been with Susie, the owner’s six-year-old daughter. McClintock had never had children of his own, but the young girl had found a way through his gruff exterior to find a spot inside his heart. The cowboy’s protective nature had always driven him to shield innocence from the harshness of the world, and he took particular care to make Susie smile whenever he was around.

He carved small animals from scrap pieces of wood, eventually creating a veritable Noah’s ark with all of the figures he created. Rather than exotic beasts, though, this wooden zoo had a uniquely frontier vibe. Cattle and coyote, horses and jackrabbits, chickens and mules comprised the young girl’s collection. With the vibrance and excitement that characterized children of that age, she had burst with excitement whenever he delivered a new piece. Her statements of thanks were unnecessary; the joy he felt when her eyes lit up was more gratitude than he could ever have asked for.

Three days before he left, he brought her one final carving. Unlike the simply-carved animals of previous days, this one was detailed and wrought with care. Every line had been made with strict concentration, and the cowboy had often paused to sharpen his knife, ensuring the cuts were precise. It had taken an entire month’s worth of leisure time to form the statue that was a foot tall and eight inches in diameter at its widest point. It was also different than his preceding works; rather than frontier animals bursting with life, this statue was of a man. An old cowboy sat resting against a tree trunk, one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent at the knee, rising to create a rest for his elbow. The lines accentuating his features imparted a sense of calmness and rest, indicating a man who had made peace with the world around him.

To the same degree that this carving was different than the others, Susie’s reaction to receiving it was also unique. As Silas handed it to her, she took it softly, cradling it as she would a rare, fragile treasure. The two sat on the ranch house’s front steps that faced the unseen Pacific Ocean, a thousand miles distant across the grassy sea of the Great Plains. The young girl turned it to and fro, examining every detail. Once she’d taken in the big picture, she turned it to face her and intently studied the man’s face. “Why, it’s you!” she exclaimed with surprise. The cowboy didn’t react and just continued to watch her expression change as she took in all of the details. Finally, the little girl spoke again. “I like this one best. You look happy.” She turned and threw her small arms around the bearlike figure of the man seated beside her.

The biggest things were often hidden within the tiniest clues. If one had bothered to observe the cowboy’s expression as she embraced him, the slight upward turn at the corner of his mouth and the moistening in his eyes would have betrayed the impact that this one-sided goodbye had on him. Haltingly, his arms rose, and he gently returned the hug, then quickly released her. His gruff nature quickly returned, asserting its protective shell. The man stood, then unemotionally said, “You take care of that one, ya hear?” He heard the enthusiastic voice behind him affirm that she would as he walked away, refusing to look back.

A soft nuzzling at his back pulled the cowboy out of his slumber. To his surprise, he’d slept longer than normal, and the sunrise was in full force by the time Cactus had impatiently awakened him. The man restarted a small fire, setting a pot of coffee to brew while he brushed down his horse and cleaned his hoofs. When he finished, Silas poured coffee into a tin cup and sat on a nearby stump, shifting until he found the least uncomfortable spot.

The landscape surrounding him was familiar, and he knew that he was nearing his destination. Nestled in the foothills, there was a small lake he’d discovered years before and memorized its location. A beaver dam had blocked a slow-moving stream, filling a natural low spot and creating a pristine body of water surrounded by hardwoods and pockets of wildflowers. He planned his route for the day, knowing he would arrive in the late afternoon.

In contrast to his relatively late departure from camp that morning, his exit from the ranch had occurred hours before dawn, intentionally without notice. Life started early on the frontier, but by the time roosters were crowing and Cookie had stoked the breakfast fire, Silas and Cactus were nowhere to be seen. Although his absence was immediately noticed, it was only in the ensuing days that it was genuinely felt. In many ways, subtle and seemingly unremarkable in the moment, the older cowboy had been the center of life at the ranch. His knowledge, wisdom, and experience had been taken for granted, not out of ingratitude or disrespect, but with the implicit assumption that he would always be there, steady as the river that flowed through the center of the grazing areas. No one realized what a hole he would leave until they saw that it could never be filled.

By late afternoon, McClintock reached the lake. He led Cactus to drink from its peaceful waters, then walked him around its edges, giving the horse his head as the cowboy took in every detail. He paused to watch a woodpecker make its mark on a tree, its steady hammering revealing a meal of termites that hid just beneath the bark. Nearby, two squirrels engaged in a raucous territorial dispute, their frantic races through adjacent branches creating a humorous commotion. The man’s face spread in a small smile, comparing their antics to the petty arguments he’d often observed between testosterone-fueled men in their youth.

An hour later, he completed his journey, having fully circled the lake. Silas dismounted, then led Cactus to a slight rise that faced the open lake. He unsaddled him, piling the gear next to a poplar at the crest of the hill. The aged cowboy brushed the buckskin down with the utmost care, feeding his companion the last measure of oats he’d brought, along with the rest of the hardtack. By the time he was done, the buckskin looked refreshed and energetic, the short day’s ride having hardly sapped his strength.

Silas walked around to face the horse, resting his forehead on the gelding’s. His voice gently flowed with soft words, reminiscent of a softly babbling brook. The horse could sense the sincerity of the moment and set aside his ornery nature to listen intently. McClintock explained that there were ranches and farms within twenty miles in every direction; although the horse couldn’t understand his words, he absorbed the cowboy’s meaning. Minutes later, the man finished, having said all that he intended. A step to the side and another forward, he lay his head on the horse’s neck, wrapping his arms around it for a final few moments.

When the man withdrew, he pointed toward a box canyon to the south, then slapped the horse’s rear. Cactus trotted off, then paused to glance rearward. He watched as Silas gingerly lowered himself to sit against the tree, one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent at the knee, rising to create a rest for his elbow. He faced west, watching the sun begin to set through a gap between two of the taller mountain peaks. The horse could see that his demeanor was calm and peaceful, and this gave him the assurance he needed to resume the journey his owner had set him on.

The cowboy enjoyed the view. The yellow, orange, and pink hues of the sinking sun set the valley ablaze with new colors. Its rays reflected off of the lake, imparting a sense of undying peace to the surrounding glade. It was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, and he was grateful for the opportunity to see it one final time.

An hour later, McClintock pulled his worn Colt single-action Army revolver from its holster. Chambered in .44-40 Winchester that matched his lever-action rifle, it had rarely left his side for more than 15 years. The cowboy turned it over in his hand, examining each scratch, scuff, and scrape. He chuckled as he thought of the assumptions tenderfoots had about sidearms in the West. Greenhorns assumed that cowboys purposefully marked their guns in various ways, notching them or etching symbols into the stocks and handles for macabre reasons. No one in his right mind engaged in this practice, but that wasn’t to say that the revolver was without markings. Worn bluing and numerous scratches told the story of a tool that had served a useful purpose, each mark hiding a memory, the sum of which comprised the man holding it.

Silas’s mind drifted to rumors about why cowboys carried guns. Although self-defense was always a possibility, gunfights were far rarer than the dime novels made them out to be and had decreased substantially as the heyday of the wild West was slowly eroded by the unrelenting forces of civilization. Much more commonly, a handgun was used to ward off wild animals by creating noise, intimidating cougars and grizzly so a confrontation was less likely. The most common application, however, was as an act of mercy. When an animal had reached its end, suffering an incapacitating injury or a wound too grievous to heal, the most compassionate action to be taken was to end its life quickly.

Laying the revolver on his lap, the cowboy shifted his position to lessen the pain radiating from numerous points in his body. He took in the full scope of the view, both of the landscape and the life he’d lived. The first provided a sense of peace; what his eyes saw was perfect in its way. The latter—well, he was satisfied with it. There had been mistakes, decisions he regretted, and bridges that he wished he hadn’t burned, but such is the case with all lives. The man was wise enough to recognize the overall picture he had painted through the decades, and he was content with what he saw.

Miles away now, Cactus ambled through the brush. He had felt disquieted for weeks, his bond with his owner informing the animal’s emotions to a far greater degree than most people would ever realize. The horse had sensed his ever-increasing pain for quite some time, and dialed down his orneriness to provide the maximum comfort he could. He knew no other route to take, but his thoughts stayed with the man.

A dozen yards later, the buckskin paused. Something had changed, and he lifted his head, ears slowly rotating in an attempt to identify what he sensed. The woods grew quiet, but not out of fear or a sense of danger. A blanket of emotion settled over the valley, and the horse knew what it was: respect. A moment later, a single shot rang out, its echoes receding as they bounced off the rock walls that surrounded them. The emotional landscape slowly shifted, and the gelding felt relief. He knew that the cowboy was finally at peace.